THE TRUEST EVERYTHING

They say April is the cruellest month

But I say not so

In all the brilliance of Spring it seems

Breeding

all life sustained in innocent dreams

In fruitful season, spright and bright,

The last wave of forgetful breeze

Chasing a surprise,

premature release

Before the pick of the blade,

The comfort of the fight.

Here, in vain, was some voice, by some chance

Some odd coincidence that brought a world of consolation

A strange awakening, or some motivation

Before even a glance,

Or any estimation or deliberation

Unearthing the purest depracation

Pre-empting the strong, braving the storm,

Yet bracing truth, the last trace stringing along.

There, in pain, a sickened disillusion

A most sinister restitution

I do insist, eternity of bricks and stone

A castle in my sand, a charm in my hand

A token on my wrist, a statue in my home

Too far, too near

In it, the reality of tortured musings

Crafting a decade of lovers' confusion

After all, its just an excuse

To appease the waves that render it alone.

Unreal city,

Wastelandic fears

Like grasping a flickering Rod

Holmesian tears

The greatest empathy, intrinsic compassion

To color a shade of red,

Purple Songs, unconditional units

A stage of game and a gaze of shame

The God of Small Things, at least on me

To have it all, and all

Before the taking of a toast, and a shot of double T.

It is a blessing, or it is a curse

Thinking on once, it could always be worse

So many knights in all kinds of armour

Fighting to gain first, my restive ardor

The reason behind, the battles of time

No!

Leave innocent April in its earthly peace

Indeed, in truth

May is the cruellest month

Mixing memory with desire

Turning Spring leaves to dust

Leaving fresh blood to rust

But healed? A deluge of inner strength

Forgone? A lexiconic rendering

May, to deny, not to read, to recede, not to cry

The cruellest month,

May soon, for June,

Lay breathless, wondrous,

In the vision and revision for a promise of lies.